


it's not exactly life, just the life that i dreamed

by majesdane



Category: Dollhouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-09
Updated: 2009-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Adelle knows that kind of hurt.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's not exactly life, just the life that i dreamed

Adelle remembers exactly how it happened.

Granted, she wasn't actually present when it happened; she'd been upstairs in her office going through paperwork when she'd gotten the call about Alpha. He'd spun into a rage, completely out of nowhere, slashed Whiskey in the face multiple times, as Mr. Dominic informed her; she watched the scene play out in slow motion on the surveillance tape as he spoke to her, saw the way Alpha moved forward, the scissors in his hand glinting in the light, a steady arc of silver as he swung his arm down.

Her first question was where Alpha had gotten the weapon. (During a regular activity, Mr. Dominic told her in a terse voice; it'd been a small pair of scissors.) The second thing she asked about was Whiskey. (Condition unknown as right now; she'd been taken to see Dr. Saunders right away.)

She'd taken the stairs, had hurried down as fast as her ridiculous high heels would allow; she'd told Mr. Dominic before she'd hung up to send Alpha up to Topher to have him wiped. Topher was already setting up the chair when she arrived, Alpha's handler trying to calm him down, coaxing him into a treatment.

Adelle had only just barely left the main floor when chaos had broken out; she'd heard the screams, had turned and run back. Security guards, handlers, dolls; Alpha hadn't spared anyone's life on his mission to escape. Except for Echo, they discovered, who was found sitting on the floor of the showers, in puddles of water and blood, surrounded by mutilated Dolls. Adelle's first order was to secure the building; the second was to remove the dead. They'd be taken care of with the proper respect they deserved.

The last thing on her mind was Whiskey.

Adelle would feel a stab of guilt later, for having forgotten about Whiskey, who was curled up in the corner in Dr. Saunder's office, the late doctor lying only a few feet outside of the office, his face slashed to bits. Whiskey's handler was dead; she was utterly alone. Alone and scared, when Adelle finally found her, and it seemed like the only sensible thing to do, when she extended her hand and said, It's alright, Whiskey. Everything's going to be okay.

 

;;

 

Whiskey's damaged goods now.

The wounds on her face will take months to heal, even with proper treatment and care, and then there will be the scarring, and the marks most likely won't ever fade away completely; she's no longer useful as a Doll. They debate on what to do with her: cosmetic surgery to fix the inevitable scars; sending her to the Attic; turning her loose. In the end Adelle realizes that the Dollhouse is currently in need of a skilled physician to replace the late Dr. Saunders and that becomes Whiskey's new, permanent assignment.

 

;;

 

It works out marvelously; sometimes Adelle forgets that Claire isn't really Claire at all, that underneath it she's just an Active, an empty shell, a girl with a name that she's forgotten by now.

And then something will come along to remind her; Mr. Dominic will comment on how quickly Whiskey's taken to her role and Topher will jump in and point out that it's largely thanks to him, because extracting an identity from a dead person is incredibly difficult and Adelle will be jolted back to that day when Alpha escaped, will remember the stark dark red color of the blood on Whiskey's face, skin so pale.

There are times when she wishes that she could apologize, especially when she sees how Claire doesn't ever look anyone straight in the eye, how she always keeps her head bowed slightly.

(She doesn't want people to see her scars.)

(Let Echo be her best, is what Alpha had said, according to the reports.)

But she can't say sorry, not to Claire, because Claire isn't Whiskey. Claire is just Dr. Saunders and a mix of other personalities that Topher put into her, other identities, to fill in the gaps. Claire isn't whoever Whiskey was before all of this, some years ago, when she signed the contract with long, swooping letters in bright blue ink.

 

;;

 

Claire doesn't have any mirrors in her office.

Adelle has never noticed it before; she remembers then that this is one of the only times she's been in the medical office since the real Dr. Saunders died. She's sitting on the examination table, gritting her teeth as Claire pulls the bullet out of her side, stitches up the wound with quick, expert fingers. She grips the edge of the table; the pain shoots up and down along her side, like fire. Sharp. Almost intolerable.

(And Dr. Saunders has no mirrors in her office.)

You shouldn't have refused anesthesia, Claire says. It would have hurt less.

It doesn't matter; she can stand the pain. Physical pain fades, she knows. Scars don't last forever. She glances over at Claire, putting away her instruments, throwing away bloody gloves and gauze, before she begins buttoning up her blouse again, thinks about Claire's scars. Wonders how long it will take for them to fade. Perhaps in another five years they'll be gone, Adelle thinks, or maybe before that; she can't say. In time Claire -- or Whiskey or someone else -- will look normal again.

The memory though, she thinks, that will last forever. Or for as long as they allow it to.

She thinks about that, the sort of pain that doesn't fade, the kind that causes her to sit up some nights, completely unable to sleep, only thinking about how all of this could have prevented, if only she'd just tried a little harder, if only she'd been smart enough to read the signs and see it coming.

(The signs were there, of course. She'd let things get out of hand. And people had suffered. Claire -- _Whiskey_ \-- had suffered; she was reminded of that every day, seeing those scars.)

 

;;

 

Adelle would like to say sorry, but she wouldn't know where to start.

Claire flinches when she reaches forward, trailing her fingers lightly over the scars. They feel surprisingly soft under her fingertips, Adelle thinks. She'd always thought of them as rough and hard. Appearances versus reality, then.

Do they hurt? Adelle asks, pulls her hand away slowly.

Sometimes, Claire says, and her eyes don't meet Adelle's; they stray downwards, to the floor. Claire says, It depends on the day, I think. Most of the time now I forget they're there. In the shower, that's when I remember they're there. It's not a physical sort of hurt, though. It's like -- I can't explain it.

(Adelle knows that kind of hurt.)

The word sorry is on her tongue; she bites down on her lip to keep from saying it. It's heavy, the word sorry. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, creates a lump in her throat and she has to swallow hard to try and rid herself of it. It's useless, sorry, because it won't undo what's been done, won't take back those five years, won't fix those scars.

It won't heal that hurt, either.

 

;;

 

She kisses Claire.

It's not even a logical next step, but it _feels_ like the right thing to do. Claire hasn't got anyone, friends or family or anything else. She never leaves the Dollhouse; she can't. She's bound by more than just her contract and the false memories Topher gave her. She's just Whiskey and this place, the Dollhouse, is the only thing that she knows. It's the only home she's got.

So Adelle kisses her, because that sorry is still on her tongue and this isn't any sort of proper apology, but she doesn't know what else to do, guilt settling heavily in her stomach, and Claire doesn't move or make a sound, just lets herself be kissed. And then it's over; Claire stares at her with wide doe eyes, and Adelle can't think of anything to say.

(What could she say; words are meaningless. And Claire wouldn't understand. She can't say those kinds of words to Claire anyway, only to Whiskey. But Whiskey isn't Whiskey right now, may never actually _be_ Whiskey again. And it's not even her that deserves to hear the words; the girl who came before, before Whiskey became Whiskey, before she became Claire. That's who she'll say sorry to, if she ever gets to meet that girl again.)

Oh, Claire says, flushes.

Your scars, Adelle says, reaches for Claire's hand. They'll fade.

With time, Claire says. Her palm feels soft.

Yes, Adelle says. With time.


End file.
